"No, I mean his personal vehicle," Robertson said.
"Well, he was the one who could've been framed."
"That's what he claimed. Indeed, Flannery was drug tested. No traces of illegal substances. A search of his bank records didn't find any odd deposits. No one could track down any unusually large cash purchases. So if he wasn't using or selling, why were there drugs in his car? The most likely explanation is that he was setting up people to make sure they got convicted. Otherwise, the drugs didn't make sense."
Robertson continued, "Anyway, as I mentioned, he survived the investigation. However, his career stalled. The officers respect him, but the police board doesn't want to deal with the controversy that could come with promotions. But neither do they want to deal with outrage among the ranks if he's let go. See, he exists in a law enforcement limbo, mostly gets shoved into some corner of the department and forgotten. At least until a reporter makes him look like some kinda hero."
The flack stood up. "I'm afraid that's all the time we have for today. The mayor has another meeting scheduled in five minutes."
"But I didn't get a chance to ask much at all," Debbie protested.
"I'm sorry we have to end this now, Miss Bradley. But I did enjoy meeting you. If you have any other questions about our programs and initiatives to keep our great city of St. Louis safe, my office can fill you in on the details."
"I'm going for a run," Debbie announced as she headed toward the front door of her home. "I need to clear my head."
Beth, who'd been sitting on the living room couch scrawling notes in a yellow legal pad, briefly glanced up from her work and nodded. "Don't worry about taking a key. I'll be here."
Debbie bounded down the front steps then put her headphones in her ears. She opened her favorite running playlist, queuing a mix of random songs that helped her set a steady pace.
Lafayette Park was directly across from her parents' home. Established in 1838 and supposedly the oldest park west of the Mississippi River, it was ringed with a black iron fence, each spindle topped with a fleur-de-lis. Debbie had been coming here since she was a child. There were photos of her in pigtails standing on an ornate arched bridge that survived the 1896 tornado, pictures of her father pushing her on the swings at the playground--both of them beaming--a few photos of her leaning against a concrete frog created by sculptor Bob Cassilly, and even a senior prom picture on the old bandstand that she'd reluctantly allowed her parents to take.
Debbie figured she needed at least five laps around the park to shed her funk. Traveling once around the perimeter was three-fourths of a mile. The first go-around she dedicated to letting go of ruminating over her phone call with Sam, a conversation that kept playing in her head.
"My story about the mayor is a dud," Debbie had said when she called Sam from city hall's parking lot after her meeting. "He just wanted to see if I'd play ball. If I'm good to him, he'll be good to me. I floated the topic of community guns. He claimed there was no such thing. But judging by how fast he and his minion reacted, my guess is that there's more to it."
"Of course there's more to it. Good gawd, if biscuit-making, gun-wound-patching grannies in the hood are telling you there's a problem, there's a problem. Either the mayor is very stupid--which is a possibility--or he wants to keep the information quiet," Sam said. "Maybe he's worried that talking about illegal gun violence will land him in the middle of the gun controversy in general. Whatever the case may be, it's worth digging more into the issue."
"But that's still a project that will take some time," Debbie said. "Maybe there's the Flannery angle. It sounds like the mayor wants me to go after his police academy classmate. I mean, he basically accused Flannery of being a dirty cop. But he did it in that way politicians and mobsters like to do, that way of saying something that gives them room to deny that it was the intent of their conversation."
"A dirty cop story would be a big one, if you can prove it," Sam replied.
"I don't have the sources inside to get that one," Debbie answered.
"What about Officer Parker? It seems like she's warming up to you. Why don't you work on her?"
"Maybe," Debbie said, not convinced that the young cop would help her. "But still, I'm not convinced there's a story there. The mayor has a personal motivation for going after Flannery. Maybe Denise Robertson is having second thoughts about ditching her first husband now that he looks more heroic."
"Possibly," Sam said. "But what if the mayor is trying to help you with his hints?"
"Are you serious? I haven't spent much time around here but he strikes me as someone who gives to get. He'll lend one half-hearted hand and demand two helping hands in return."
"I won't disagree," Sam said. "But a half-hearted hand is still something. Be that as it may, our owner is happy that you've met the mayor. I took the liberty of telling him. It helps you--and me."
"Ugh, I haven't met this tech benefactor. And you're making me more stressed," Debbie said.
"Isn't that an editor's job?"
The mention of River City's owner, and the fact that he was keeping tabs on her, meant that Debbie couldn't find the anxiety relief she was looking for, even after she finished her first mile.
Plus, she was still annoyed with Mayor Robertson and his public relations officer. And Ada's comment about Chase Laclede had left her unsettled and reminded her of the unresolved issues she had with Christian. Her former fiancé hadn't texted. He hadn't called. Yet he did seem to have time to post comments about news developments on Twitter. At least that's what Debbie had noticed while obsessively checking his feed.
It wasn't until the third mile that Debbie's shoulders finally felt looser, her breathing having fallen into the familiar rhythmic pattern that matched her stride. Instead of fixating on her problems, she started to notice the parents pushing jogging strollers, brisk walkers with hand weights, and the dog walkers.
And then it stopped. Everyone seemed to flee from Debbie's path. A scream was loud enough to be heard over her music. She yanked the earbuds from her ears.
"Look out!" A man on the sidewalk across the street who was walking his dog pointed behind Debbie. She turned to see a car had jumped the curb and was driving partially on the sidewalk. Straight at her. And it didn't show any signs of slowing.
Debbie darted through an opening in the gate and ran behind an old elm tree, hoping it would block the car.
The driver swerved back onto the roadway. The driver's face was hard to see because a baseball cap had been pulled down over his forehead. The front windows were rolled down. But Debbie thought she caught a glimpse of a gun being pointed at her by the driver.
"Fucking bitch!" It was a man's voice. And the car was gone.
A crowd materialized. "I'm fine," Debbie said, her voice wavering as she tried to open the hand that she'd used to clench her phone as she tried to get out of the car's way.
"Did anyone see the driver?" Debbie asked.
"No, but I got a look at his license plate," someone volunteered.
"She was most certainly targeted," Beth said to Flannery. "You can't deny it."
Flannery and Officer Parker appeared at Debbie's house after word spread about the chaos in Lafayette Park. Even though no one had been hurt, residents in the normally quiet upscale city neighborhood were upset that the tranquility had been shattered.
Beth was seated in one of the overstuffed chairs in the living room. Flannery and Parker were on the couch. Debbie stood in the doorway between the living room and the front hall.
"Mom, please," Debbie said, irritated that her mother had taken over the conversation and was dominating the discussion.
"Ms. Hughes," Flannery began.
"Beth," Debbie's mom insisted.
Flannery nodded. "Beth. I'm not going to deny it. However, I think it was probably meant as a warning. Debbie said she thought the driver had a gun. If he truly wanted to get rid of her, he wouldn't have been so dramatic. After all, you have to admit that driving down the sidewal
k in a crowded park is far from subtle. No, if he really meant business, he would've just shot at her from his car."
Officer Parker flinched at Flannery's blunt assessment. But Beth's gaze remained steady and focused on the detective as she studied him carefully, searching for telltale signs of betrayal that his words didn't match his thoughts.
"Ma'am," Parker added, "I think Detective Flannery is absolutely right here. She wasn't shot at. And it was a rather big production."
Tired of being talked about, rather than talked to, Debbie chimed in, "Well, if someone thinks that I am easily scared, they don't know me." She looked directly at her mother as she spoke.
Beth pursed her lips, having learned from years of experience that arguing with Debbie would only cause her daughter to dig in even more stubbornly.
Flannery cleared his throat, attempting to cut through the mother-daughter tension. "You both might be interested to know that the car was stolen," he said.
"Gee, there's a surprise," Beth responded. "Are there any cars on the streets right now that aren't stolen?"
It was Flannery who flinched, unaccustomed to sharp rebukes. "I can assure you that the mayor and the police chief are aware of the problem. Ms. Bradley has helped bring that issue to everyone's attention. In fact, I just learned that we'll be rolling out bait cars to see if we can disrupt whatever seems to be going on right now."
"Interesting," Debbie said. "I'm surprised the mayor didn't mention it in our interview."
Flannery shrugged then stood up to leave. "I don't profess to know what is going on in city hall. I'm just a detective."
Parker, taking her cue from Flannery, joined him in preparing to depart. "I can assure you both that we're searching for the car. Although with so many looking, my guess is that it will have been tucked away in a garage. Or we'll find it abandoned on the street."
"Will you at least keep me posted? Let me know if you find anything?" Debbie asked as she opened the front door for their guests.
Parker answered. "Of course."
"What's that for?" Debbie said, referring to a baseball bat in the back seat of her editor's car.
"I thought we could stop by the batting cage on the way home; take a few swings, hit a few balls," Sam responded.
"Seriously?" Debbie asked.
"Of course not," Sam said. "I brought it just in case we have any trouble."
"I'm not so sure that a baseball bat will do much good," Debbie answered.
"Well, I don't own a gun. And even if I did, I'd never bring it to an interview. I've found that folks don't usually like to talk with a pistol around. Doesn't do much for building trust."
She'd called Sam after she'd nearly been run over in the park. Knowing that he had access to the LexisNexis motor vehicle registration database, Debbie gave him the license plate number and asked, "Can you track down the owner?"
"More than likely, yes," Sam said.
But their conversation was cut short because Flannery and Parker had paid the surprise visit to Debbie's home. "I'll swing by in an hour," Sam said after Debbie relayed the turn of events. "That'll give me time to do some research and we can go to the owner's home together."
And in an hour, Sam was at Debbie's house, just as he'd promised. By then, Flannery and Parker were long gone.
"How'd it go with your officer friends?" Sam asked.
"Fine, I guess," Debbie said. "To be honest, I didn't get to ask too many questions. My mom was busy cross-examining Flannery. Though I have to admit it was kinda fun to see him wilt in the face of her onslaught."
Sam chuckled. "I wish I could've been there for that."
"Oh, it was something," Debbie replied. "So, what'd you find out about the owner of the car that tried to mow me down?"
"It's registered to a woman. According to her driver's license information, she's in her mid-forties. Lives in Affton," Sam explained, referring to a solid working-class inner suburb.
"Well, the driver was a man," Debbie said. "So we can rule out the owner, unless she was part of a plot."
"We're about there," Sam said as he turned his car into a tidy neighborhood of homes built in the 1950s and parked on the street in front of a small red-brick bungalow.
"Why don't you let me do the talking?" Sam suggested as they walked up the sidewalk bounded by a freshly mowed lawn. Yellow day lilies bordered the sidewalk, and a statue of St. Francis presided over the front steps.
Sam knocked. Debbie found herself drawing in a big breath then holding it while she waited for a response.
A woman with straight reddish-brown hair that framed a round face and offset her green eyes appeared from behind a curtain that covered a window inlaid into the front door. Her brow furrowed as she looked at the strangers.
"Yes?" she asked loudly so that her visitors could hear her without having to open the door.
Sam's shoulders relaxed. An easy smile spread across his face. His usually gruff voice and sarcastic tone were gone.
"Hello, ma'am. We're from River City magazine. I'm Sam Hitchens, the editor. And this is one of our writers, Debbie Bradley."
"I don't want to buy no subscription," the woman said.
"No, we're actually here about a story. We're doing a piece on stolen cars in St. Louis. Now, Ms. Bradley here was almost run over by a car. Turns out that car belonged to you. I'm guessing it was stolen," Sam said, using his most sympathetic voice.
The woman opened the door. She was wearing a faded yellow cotton sundress with large white flowers. "My Lord, I heard! Like I told the cops who was just here, my car's been missing for about a month now. And between us--I didn't tell the cops this--I want it to stay gone. I've already made me a claim on my insurance and used the money to buy an Altima. Now, I don't know if I'm supposed ta let the insurance company know that my car is being driven by some crazy ass fool who's tryin' ta mow people down. My Lord. Do you think he's ISIS?"
Without hesitating, Sam replied, "Hmmm. ISIS. Well, stranger things have happened. But I don't know how much they're much interested in the Midwest."
The woman leaned in and whispered, "We got the Arch. I watch the news. They're coming for us."
"Is that what you told the police?" Sam asked.
The woman nodded. "Yeah. But they weren't interested. They just wanted to talk about the car. But c'mon, they've got the records. I reported it stolen when it happened."
"When was that?" Sam asked politely.
"Like I said, about a month ago. I went to the Savvis Center for a concert," she said.
"Ah, you mean the Scottrade Center? Oh wait, Enterprise Center," Sam said as he tried to remember all the various names attached to the arena since it had been built in 1994.
The woman nodded. "Whatever they're calling the old Kiel now. I can't keep up."
Sam laughed. "I'm with ya. What concert did you see?"
The woman looked at Sam and then Debbie. "Well, see, I went with my old high school girlfriends. We decided to see that concert that had some bands from back in the day. You know, New Kids on the Block, Paula Abdul, and Boyz II Men."
"That was a great one," Sam said. "When they played 'You Got It.'"
"Right! I know," the woman said enthusiastically.
"So, your car was stolen during the concert?" Sam asked.
The woman nodded, leaning closer to Sam. "Boy, were my friends pissed. 'Course, we'd also had a bit to drink. So, at first, I thought I had just forgotten where I parked. We paid twenty bucks at one of those lots that open downtown during concerts and baseball games. Kinda down by the MetroLink tracks."
Sam nodded. The woman continued.
"But then we finally tracked down our space. One of my friends had been smart enough to note it down in her phone. Anyway, there was glass on ground. No Honda. No Betsy."
"Who's Betsy?" Sam asked.
"My Glock. I kept her under the front seat. Locked and loaded, so to speak. Not literally locked in a car safe or something like that, just the safety lock," the woman answered. "If I had
it in a safe, how could I get it when I need it? A single woman can't be too careful. Especially when you go downtown. I took my protection. Now I gotta add terrorists to my list of threats: robbers, rapists, and ISIS. I just bought me a new piece last week."
"I understand the fear," Sam said. "After having your gun and car stolen, are you keeping the firearm at home?"
The woman laughed. "Bertha is for the house. Betsy Two is for the car."
"I see. You have two guns. So, have the police found the original Betsy?" Sam asked.
"Nope. And they haven't found my car. But they say it might turn up now."
"Look, I appreciate your time," Sam said as he handed her his card. "If the police call with any news, can you let me know?"
The woman smiled. "I'll think about it. Maybe you'll have to buy me a beer. For being someone with the media, you seem to be all right."
It wasn't until they got back in the car and had pulled out of the neighborhood that Debbie finally spoke. "Oh my God!"
"What?" Sam asked.
"Who are you?" Debbie asked. "Did you go to that concert?"
"Nope. But who do you think had to edit the concert review?"
"You know, I think she sort of likes you," Debbie teased.
Sam smiled. "What can I say? I'm a charming man when I want to be."
Debbie groaned.
"You do what ya gotta do," Sam said before squaring his shoulders back, regaining his authority as an editor. "We'll see what happens. But right now, I'm curious about her gun Betsy. Do you think her stolen gun is the one that is tied to the other crimes you've been tracking? It's been a month. Plenty of time to circulate in the community and wreak a lot of havoc."
"That same thought occurred to me," Debbie admitted. "I guess we'll know when--if--we find the gun. Well, I mean if the police find the gun. And if we find the driver, maybe we find the person who is connected to these shootings."
"Maybe," Sam replied.
Debbie's phone vibrated with a text message. "Huh," was all she said for a moment.
"What?"
Crime Beat Girl Page 14
